


It Shouldn't Matter

by moovelope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mentions of Suicide, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moovelope/pseuds/moovelope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes does not belong in the land of the living, for him.  Never mind at the laundry.  John blinks, and there, his eyes grow wide, his face pales.  He closes the book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Shouldn't Matter

            Sherlock returns.  It doesn’t feel much like a grand reentrance into the land of the living.  He wasn’t expecting to feel much anyway.  He drops his backpack onto the couch in 221b and dust rises from the cushions.  It has been two and a half years since he has stepped foot in his flat.  It’s been two years since John has slept in the bed upstairs.

            It was one year ago that John got married.

            It doesn’t matter.  Well, it _shouldn’t_ matter.  Sherlock resolutely refuses to have it matter.  He is back.  He has singlehandedly brought down dozens of crime rings worldwide.  He has had the most amazing puzzles and murders to orchestrate and solve these past years.  Now he can return to his past detective work. 

            The problem is that the work was not what kept him going through the cold and the nights where he thought he was counting down to his last breath.  No, the work was not tantamount in his mind at all.  Again, it doesn’t matter.  It shouldn’t matter.  He refuses to let John Watson matter in a world where John Watson no longer plays a part.

**

            He’s been back a week when he picks up the courage to tell John.  He’s had Mycroft keep an eye on him since he had left, and knows John’s schedule by heart.  It’s a Tuesday and John is sitting at the Laundromat with a book in his hands.  No.  No John is reading a book that Mary suggested to him and he hates it, god look at the twist in his mouth he’s only soldiering through it.  He has calluses on his hands; more pronounced, he’s been writing, not to do with the job, for pleasure?  His face, his wrinkles more pronounced, but there’s laugh lines along there and he looks happy.  John is happy with his life.

            “John,” he says, standing awkwardly amongst the hustle and noise of the machines.  John looks up from his boring novel, looks up and doesn’t register his face for a moment.  Sherlock Holmes does not belong in the land of the living, for him.  Never mind at the laundry.  He blinks, and there, his eyes grow wide, his face pales.  He closes the book.

            “Sherlock,” he says flatly.  Sherlock nods.

            “I was wondering if I could talk to you, for a moment,” he says.  His hands are nearly vibrating in his pockets from nerves.  John’s hands are horrifyingly still.

            “How,” John starts, then seems to lose his voice.

            “I can explain everything, if you’d like.  I just need—”

            “How _dare_ you, Sherlock,” John hisses.  “How can you just, just walk up to me and ask if I’d like to pop by for a chat?  And now, now of all times.  No, you can’t do this to me.  I won’t, Sherlock.  I can’t, can’t.”

            Sherlock closes his eyes and asks.  “Can’t do what, John?”

            “This, us.  I am not going to run off after you, even if you just rose from the _goddamn grave_ ,” John nearly yells.  “You cannot pretend to be dead for three years and then pop back up like nothing happened.  No, just go.  Leave.”

            Sherlock lets go of the breath he was holding, slow, shaky.  He nods.

            “It was nice to see you.”

            John doesn’t watch him go.

            It doesn’t matter.  But then again, nothing much matters anymore.

**

            Sherlock consults for the police again.  They don’t let him in on as many cases.  Lestrade will only call him when he is truly desperate.  The undead detective, as some idiotic “fans” call him online, gets most of his work through his website.  He takes even the dull cases.

            Mrs. Hudson has no complaints for his rent.  She does complain to him about the odd explosions and the smell of the flat and “Sherlock Holmes, how did you even manage to singe the ceiling that badly, honestly young man, you should know how to control your explosives by now.”  She reminds him to eat every few days.  She is far more motherly than any landlady should ever be.  At times he appreciates it.

            “Sherlock, you need to get out more.  And not just on cases.  Spend time with your brother, bothering him always gave you a laugh.”

            “Mrs. Hudson I am not going to ‘socialize’ with my brother simply for entertainment.  It would be like going to Hell to warm one’s toes.”

            She finishes picking up the odd bits of trash on the floor and then rests her hand on his arm.  “Still dear, I worry about you.  If you ever need to, stop by the kitchen for some tea and chat.”

            “Oh how I yearn to hear the newest exploits of Mrs. Turner’s married ones.  How could I go on without their tedious love life and scandals,” he replies, voice dripping with cynicism.  She laughs.

            “That’s the spirit.  You’ll buy the cakes.”  Despite himself, he smiles.

            Mrs. Hudson never mentions John.  He is incredibly thankful for this.

**

            Sherlock doesn’t remember when the drugs got out of hand, but he certainly knows he is on the wrong side of sobriety.  It started while he was still off shutting down Moriarty’s network.  Then it was just a small pinch of a high to keep him going, to keep him sharp.  When he first arrived back in London, the cocaine was a quick indulgence.  Now he takes the cases to pay for the addiction.  He rarely shows at Lestrade’s crime scenes anymore, he would never be allowed to consult them again if they knew he was using.  He takes the dullest of cases with the largest payout.  Life is a dull and endless circle of highs and obtaining money to reach the highs.

            He can’t remember when it got lodged in there, probably when he first began to slip, but Sherlock has a song stuck in his head.  He’ll hum it while he works, while he walks, while he’s adjusting the belt around his arm.  An odd line or two he’ll sing when he’s not paying attention, when he’s so far out of his mind that the urge to sing really isn’t that silly at all.  It’s then that he’ll pitch his voice higher and quietly chant, “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.” 

He dreams about Moriarty some nights.  He dreams about the final problem.  He continues to hum to himself.

**

            John visits four months after Sherlock returned.  Sherlock’s first thought is, _oh god, the flat is a mess_.  Which is utterly ridiculous, what should he care for the state of the flat?  The thought is more a testament to how buggered out of his brain he is at the moment.  He doubts John won’t notice.

            The man doesn’t even knock, instead he walks straight in, leaning heavily on his cane.  Sherlock’s heart beats in time to the thumps it makes on the floor.  He wishes he could offer John his chair, but it is overflowing with books, papers and a collection of grasshoppers.  He stands instead.

            “Can I get you anything?” he asks.  Best to be polite, right?  That is what one does with guests.

            “Mary told me I should visit,” John says, looking Sherlock straight in the eye.  It’s obvious that he’s only here to pacify her.  And oh, doesn’t he know that hurts?  “Thought it would do me some good to ‘talk to an old friend, catch up with how the detective work was going’ and all.”  He clenches and unclenches his fist.

            “You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to, John.”

            “You’re right, I didn’t.  Nearly didn’t come all together.  But, I decided I might as well check up on you; see if you’ve driven Mrs. Hudson around the bend yet.  I didn’t expect to walk in on you higher than a kite, but hey, what can you do?” he pulls a tight smile that manages to kill something inside Sherlock.  “Glad to see you’re taking care of yourself after being dead for so long.  You look like a skeleton that hasn’t slept in weeks.  Really healthy, that.”

            “Do you have anything else to do than insult me?  Because, if you are quite finished, you may leave,” Sherlock says levelly.  John’s face contorts.

            “Why are you doing this to yourself Sherlock?  You don’t need the drugs.  You have the work; Lestrade has told me that you’re too busy with your private cases to help the police.  Or perhaps you’re too busy hiding all this from him.  He doesn’t know you’ve started back up again.”

            “You won’t tell him,” Sherlock says.

            “Oh, won’t I?” John challenges him.

            “No, you’ll be too busy signing me into a rehab clinic.  Let me tell you now, it won’t work,” Sherlock knows he’s pushing.  He’s pushing John to take action, to fight, to stay.

            John’s face falls blank.  “You thought I would-?  Oh, oh no Sherlock.  You can make your own decisions.  I am no longer your doctor.”  He pauses, and his face softens for a moment.  “But, Sherlock.  I, if you really do need the help.  If you’re in an emergency.  I’ll come.”

            “Oh, only as the last resort.  You’ll drop in, stitch me back up and then leave without looking at me.  You’ve done your duty, made sure Sherlock’s still alive,” Sherlock spits venomously.  John breaks.

            “You think that I will stay and watch you _kill yourself again_?  I can’t go through that, you won’t put me through that, because I’m leaving.  You unbelievably selfish prick.  I’m calling your brother and he can sort you as he sees fit,” he yells, causing Sherlock to flinch back.  John promptly turns on his heel and makes his way down the stairs.  Sherlock stands and listens to the silence of the flat, feels it close in on him.

            John obviously meant what he said.  He won’t be coming back.  Sherlock belatedly realizes that deep down he’d thought that life would eventually return to the way it once was.  He’d been hoping for a miracle.  _One more miracle, for me._

            Sherlock’s high has faded.  He curls up in his chair and begins to hum.  Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

            _And our problem, our final problem...staying alive! So boring, isn’t it?  Just staying..._

            Well, Sherlock thinks, it won’t be a problem for much longer.


End file.
